


Hook echo

by sour



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/F, Ladystuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-24
Updated: 2012-12-24
Packaged: 2017-11-22 05:53:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/606511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sour/pseuds/sour
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Terezi and Vriska in a humanstuck AU as incredibly hilariously dysfunctional college roommates. Hate-flirting, boundary-crossing, and shenanigans ensue. Perhaps someone has to come into mediate between them (Kanaya?), but ultimately the situation just results in a lot of pent-up frustration ending in some good old-fashioned roommate hatesex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hook echo

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ellipsometry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellipsometry/gifts).



> HELLO. I hope this is sufficient and meets at least some of your expectations. I had a lot of fun writing it!  
> No serious violence but generally just what comes along with hatesex.  
> big thanks to my betas, Lauren and Toma

It’s quarter to midnight when you return, and though the apartment is strewn with dirty clothes and dice (on the fucking floor—your bruises from last week are only just starting to heal), and saturated with the stench of some pungent Dior knockoff (she does it just to choke you), Vriska is gone. Kanaya is there, and alone, you think, by the sound of her tapping out rapid messages onto an intermittently-buzzing Blackberry, steadily breathing five-dollar flea market fumes and rustling (bent over a pillow?) somewhere in the vicinity of your ratty dorm sofa. You know how she sits, not quite dedicating herself to inelegant comfort but definitely leaning on a sofa, sublime, as if piles of D&D handbooks aren’t taking up eighty percent of its space—Kanaya is there, but Vriska is not.

“She’s supposed to clean tonight,” you say, and Kanaya coughs her startled cough. She hadn’t heard the door click open and shut, apparently. You decide not to find out why, although her text messages are coming hard and fast, not thirty seconds apart now. You have tact. Vriska would shriek.

“Hello.”

“She knows we’ve got company tomorrow.”

“Mmm.” She’s hardly listening. _Tap tap._

“What did she do, scent the apartment and call it a night?”

“Yes.” Kanaya gently removes a box of half-eaten pizza from a bean bag chair, but you don’t take the invitation. Judging by the scent, it’s been used as an ashtray in the past five hours.

“Guess I’m supposed to think she’s got a date.”

“You’re welcome to think whatever you’d like.”

“Jesus. Lalonde is getting to you.” The Blackberry buzzes on cue. The noise of their constant communication is worth it, though, now that Kanaya doesn’t spend her time following Vriska with doe eyes and a needle, trying to stitch up the irreparable disaster of her life.

Thoughts like these make you feel a little bit better about yourself.

Vriska comes home before sunrise but after the rest of the world has gone to bed, possibly quarter to four—probably drunk, because you hear the door slam. It’s loud enough that you’ll be getting calls from the landlord tomorrow, but you won’t say anything, even though it startles you from a fitful doze and Vriska _knows_ that it takes you ages to get back to sleep. She does it in the hopes that you’ll complain the next morning and give her an excuse to start something bigger and darker. She craves a fight, and you can’t give it to her, because any way you twist it, there is inevitable disaster—each time you run the scenario, it ends with her nails in your eyes and her blood in your mouth, and you have to press your legs together to stop yourself from thinking anything at all.

You’d begun imagining these futures at the tender age of eighteen, at orientation, meeting your randomly-assigned roommates: Kanaya Maryam, who never flinched or recoiled at the startling red film over your unseeing eyes, whose soft voice and sentimental, mothering ways erected within days a firm barrier between your personality and—the other one, the chain-smoking, hair-flipping, pseudo-crustpunk rich kid, who kicked your cane by “accident” once, twice, five times—until it pushed you to realize (after the initial glimmer of _oh no, she’s hot_ ) that knowing her could be worth it, because what is college for if not throwing your life into the hands of a gorgeous maniac like Vriska Serket? It’s been three semesters, now, and she still puts out her cigarettes on your glasses (“Christ, it’s not like you need to see through them!”) and uses your shirts to clean spilt beer. You slap her with your cane, and raise welts on her legs. She rearranges your soap and hair products in the shower; you use half of her shampoo in a morning. She pokes obscene messages in braille onto your possessions; you scrawl your retaliations on the Playboy centerfolds taped around her room. You haven’t killed each other, likely only for Kanaya’s sake—but Lalonde looms in a lavender-scented cloud of inevitable calamity, and Kanaya’s attention can only be held for so long. You stuff your fingers into your mouth.

The bathroom separates your room from Vriska’s, and you can hear water hiss on the tiles. She doesn’t even bother to be quiet with her hoarse Nirvana. You slip your free hand into your panties and gently rock yourself to sleep.

 

— — — —

 

Aradia arrives early; Rose doesn’t. Vriska is DMing, which means phase spiders and the drider shadow spinner, but at least no one has to go up against her psychic eight-eyed arachnid girl. Kanaya is uncharacteristically quiet over on her chair, and you can sense the frustration mounting in Vriska, who, after several unsuccessful tosses of her head, stretches across your lap. You have to feel her in order to place your hands, and they brush over her face briefly—it gives you an excuse to stick a finger up her nose and laugh in her face—you flick them out of the way a half-second before she bites. The apartment doesn’t have air conditioning, and Vriska tends to walk around in boxers and a sports bra on her best days, but you’re relieved to feel loose flannel.

“Gonna put those hands where I want them, Pyrope?”

“Yeah.” 

She arches, craning her head to see if Kanaya is watching—you flick her between the eyes.

“Jesus,” Vriska squawks, and Aradia throws something. You push her off your lap, and she falls gracelessly to the floor, hitting you in the knee (hard) when you laugh so much you lose your breath.

 

— — — —

 

Salted caramel Stoli has done nothing for the pounding in your temple. You lean over the sink, taking a minute to judge how much you’ve sobered—too much, you find, to your dissatisfaction, and you consider going back out, but Vriska is there, and tonight she riles your nerves like venom in the blood.

Days like this one are a battleground for Vriska’s fronts; you’ve dealt with people who fluctuate like this, from dirty malice to cloying, cunning sweetness, but it seems that Vriska changes at the drop of a D&D spider troll’s LARPing pirate hat because she doesn’t know what she wants. She only _wants_.

You turn the knob of the shower. The bathroom door swings open.

“ _Damn_ , Pyrope!” It’s her—of course it’s her—and she stretches out her _damn_ like it’s got eight vowels in a row.

“Occupied!” You reach out a hand and nearly poke her in the eye, and she swats you away.

“Turn a fucking light on, dumbass.”

“And why the hell,” you say, as she elbows past you, “would I do that?”

“So you can— _oh, wait_ ,” she smirks, and laughs as if the joke hasn’t been repeated (by her) a few hundred times in the last year.

“That is a really funny joke,” you tell her. “I’m amused by it.”

“Thanks.” Vriska turns the tap and spends an excessively long time looking at herself in the mirror.

“Still gorgeous?”

“God.” She sighs. “If only you knew.”

But you do know. On a night she’d decided to be warm-hearted, you traced the angles of her face and felt her lips—soft, despite all she does to them—and her chin, and her hair, and the only image you can conjure is one of striking beauty, which bothers you late at nights, hotter than jealousy, and you’ve never been prone to jealousy. Kanaya never said she was beautiful. Aradia hates her with a contempt that only simmers, but yours is turned up to a needling, irritating preoccupation that boils hot in the pit of your stomach and pumps adrenaline to the tips of your fingers.

“Come back to us, Neophyte,” says Vriska, pinching your cheek and pulling. You smack her good-naturedly until she laughs the low _huff_ that means she’s really amused—the one that drives pleasure into the pit of your stomach despite all your best efforts—the one that isn’t the melodramatic drawn-out guffaw that makes your neighbors bang on the walls. But they bang on the walls for you too.

“Man,” she says, suddenly morose (or acting like it), and slumps against the bathroom door. “Lalonde better show the hell up before Maryam loses it. You wouldn’t believe how desperate she looks.”

You would. You twist your grin into a frown.

“You’re not getting Kanaya back.”

Vriska goes still before drawing a deep breath.

“Who says I want Kanaya back? I never even had Kanaya. Is this coming from Lalonde? You can tell her she’s a puffed-up bitch if she thinks I want her girlf—”

In two seconds you have her up against the door. She squirms enough to get her knee against your hip—fucking tall girls—but not enough that it pushes you away, and you can lean in close. There’s no vodka on her breath; there’s smoke and Wrigley’s and mozzarella, and you wonder if you can kiss a girl who eats day-old, barely-refrigerated pizza, but she makes that decision for you.

It’s hard and unpleasant, and you think your lip might be bleeding. Vriska hisses, then breathes coolly on your face. Doublemint. “You really freak me the fuck out when you smile like that.”

“You piss me off so damn much. Manipulative.” You put a hand on her waist and her hips jerk in response, wiggling toward you. Her legs open enough for you to fit in closer.

“Shut up.”

Your shower ruse was hardly a good distraction; it must be obvious to everyone that you’re both in here, and if they can hear the knocking of Vriska’s bony ass against the door, it’s all over, but you don’t care—Vriska has bent her legs so that your faces are on level, and she kisses like she’s already memorized your mouth. She takes a moment to pluck your glasses from your face, and tosses them into the sink—hers are gone, too, you realize, when she kisses you again, and she reaches for the hem of your shirt, but you press her hard against the door, wanting to taste all the flavors in her Marlboro Virginia Blends, and she lets out this _groan_ that goes straight to your spine.

You must have made a noise, because she huffs in victory, and after a pause you feel her nails scrabble at your sides, catching hold of the hem of your shirt. You lift your arms. Vriska tosses the shirt away—you hear a muffled splash—the toilet.

“Serket!”

“Ow!” Your hand is on her throat—not quite constricting her windpipe, but applying enough pressure that your nails dig into her exertion-warm skin—and she gasps. “The hell?”

“Quiet, quiet—” you whisper in her ear, unable to repress a muffled peal of laughter at her squirm. Your hand scratches down her throat and she shudders, palpably, a snarl on her lips when you find them again. The kiss breaks for a half second as you pull her shirt over her head, and she presses bare breasts against your cotton bra.

You sense movement a moment too late. Vriska splashes a handful of water in your face from the running shower—still warm.

“Whoops,” she says, drily, as your mouth opens reflexively for air, and moves her wet hands deliberately over your back to the clasp of your bra. You blow what you can of the water into what you hope are her eyes, and she laughs, palming your breasts less gently than you’d like. Your world flickers a little as she runs a bitten nail over your nipple. Vriska Serket has you by the tit.

From then, there are soft moans—accidental bumps against the sink or the door—half of an expletive from Vriska when you pull on her hair (accidentally, then deliberately)—and you have her up on the cold porcelain sink, shoes discarded and underwear hanging by the curtain rod, legs spread wide. A sharp bite on her inner thigh does more to make her whine than to silence her, and you briefly contemplate grabbing her own panties from their station on high to gag her.

No. The shower’s still going. “Wait,” you say, and you ignore her put-upon groan as you flick the switch for the bathroom fan.

But, when you return, you hear only Vriska—she sighs as you mouth around her moist curls, humming when you tongue her slit—she kicks you in the chest when you deliberately avoid her center and move up to smell her stomach.

“You are fucking weird, Pyrope.”

You only laugh. She smells good here too—a _bad_ sort of good, you think, then grimace at the cliché. Soap and—you lick steadily from her cropped pubic hair to her bellybutton—sweat.

“Get on with it,” she snaps, and you bite her. She kicks you again, this time more gently, and then thinks better of the onslaught; her big toe rubs clumsily against the valley in your panties. Probably a negotiation tactic. You decide to reward her.

“Fuck—”

You murmur your assent into the apex of her thighs, and she groans. You hear the apartment door open and close, but you no longer care if Aradia and Kanaya are going, or if Rose is finally here—and you don’t care if they hear, because this is Vriska Serket, it’s inevitable—

She grabs your hair and you yelp out loud, hitting your chin on the sink.

“This venue blows,” she says in her version of an apology. You respond by grabbing her by the hips—she practically shrieks as you drag her off the counter—and you carry her to your room, where she is dumped unceremoniously on your bed.

“Yeah,” you agree. And you dive back in, too aware of the smudge of wetness she left on your belly as she wrapped her legs about your waist. Two of your fingers spread her lips for better access, and your free hand smears it downward, into your panties and into your core. You giggle against her and she threads her hand back into your hair—more gently, so you nip her, and she responds accordingly, grabbing a clump of your hair, and a delicious pain shoots down your back and slows to a rest between your legs.

She’s talking, you realize, a jumbled chant of your name and meaningless whispers, sometimes an _ahh_ that stretches out for eight seconds at a time. You speed the movements of your tongue to see what happens, and you are rewarded. Serket cannot shut up at the best of times, and if this is not the best of times—

She tugs your hair again, insistently, and you draw away with a regretful sigh, lifting your eyes to where you’re sure her face is. Heat radiates from her skin as she pulls you upward by the forearms, and pushes you down with a thump onto your own pillow.

“Still got your socks on, nerd.”

“I’m fashion-conscious,” you begin, but anything you could have thought of saying is wiped from your mind. She has two fingers over the damp spot in your panties and is rubbing rapidly, pressing into the center of your arousal like you did last night with thoughts of her fingers skipping madly through your brain. There is moist, hot breath on your face before she kisses you, harsh and unapologetic, and you realize, for the first time, that she has unusually sharp canines. They cut your lip. You hope your blood trickles into her mouth.

You wish she weren’t quite so good, because you can feel it coming, rushing from your scalp and toes and fingers toward your hips, up your spine and down again, and you haven’t even taken off your underwear. You clench your teeth and push her away with such force that her arm actually bounces off the bed, and she makes an offended sort of noise.

Pain jolts from the roots of your hair—which Vriska is tugging—to your thigh, where her nails scratch a set of blazing hot lines as she drags down your panties, and when they are finally off you grab both of her wrists and slam them into the bed. The knobby joint of her knee presses against your center, and you realize you could probably grind to completion with that alone—you entertain the thought for a while, wiggling your pelvis, until she drops it suddenly. You’re left straddling her thigh as she resists the force of your hold.

“Holy shit, Terezi,” she says, and you suddenly resent her for making this personal. Her wrists struggle madly in your grip. “Can one of us at least do this the right way?”

Everything is still for a moment.

You release one hand, but clutch the other tighter in compensation, and she moves her knuckles to trace your lips before rubbing slowly between them. You shift your legs a begrudging inch or two, and she slips deeper, and you can feel how careful she’s being, and you hate her.

Vriska is silent. You wish she weren’t. You find a nipple and tease it into hardness, relishing her little gasps, and bend to put your mouth on whatever bit of skin you can find—collarbone, shoulder, the swell of her breast, using your teeth, goading her into some noise, feeling your orgasm coming fast, coming—

Your eyes roll back, and your hips jerk with the crushing pleasure. You wonder why Vriska is the one making this low, obscene moan—the ripple of your orgasm around her fingers, you guess. You’ve bitten her nipple, too. _Oh. Makes sense_.

You're shaking, barely holding yourself up. Smells and sounds swim back into reality after a moment.

“Get the fuck off.” Her voice is too rough with arousal to be as sharp as she means it to be. You roll off, feeling for the edge of the bed, still reeling, and breathe deeply to stop your head from swimming. Your hands smell just like her. The entire room smells like her.

Soft whimpers behind you. From the sounds of it, she’s touching herself. You turn, focusing on the steady noise, and feel ridiculous when heat pools between your legs again.

You tug away Vriska’s hand and bend, scooting backwards, lowering your mouth home, as if simply picking up where you’d left off, and she groans, a grinding noise deep in her throat; everything is wet, so slick, and you resist the urge to rub yourself. You lick her until she tugs your hair so hard that you think she has actually pulled some of it out, and she bucks into your face, making some weird choked noise—as if she’s trying not to scream—her legs are shaking, and one of them knees you right in the chest before the tension drains out of her and she collapses onto the bed.

“Shit.”

You don’t respond.

“Shit,” she says again. “Kanaya turned the shower off.”

You turn your head and press your face against her inner thigh, snickering. She knees you again on purpose, repeatedly, until you get off.

When you finally clean off, there’s no hot water, but it’s fine. You can blame your shitty roommate.


End file.
